The Finest
by Hartman
Summary: An old man marches on. He doesn't have a name, he's just a statistic, a mere pair of boots marching towards inevitable death.


Former farmer Samuel Fuchs marched along the road with signs of exhaustion and effort carved on his face. He was too tired to be a bitter old man, keeping his mind in tight wraps under the assumptions of helplessness and depression. The last few battles had deepened his thoughts, so the once regular gestures were cut to minimum. Despite that, he felt proud of what he was and what he was doing. He straightened his back and kept up with the younger soldiers of the militia. He was the oldest one of his platoon. Most of the soldiers were young, afraid and uneducated in all aspects of life. It was a shame, since most of them will never have the chance to experience them.

Casualty rates for them were high, for they lacked the skill and the equipment of the marines and other branches of the mighty dominion army. Not to mention that the command mostly used them as meatshields for their marines advancing behind them. It wasn't the only thing that caused unnecessary victims. Yesterday the whole Booth family got killed when Papa Booth took a needle spine in the chest. All three of his sons, Bruce, Nick and Peter, rushed to help their father. When the medics were done bagging and tagging them, they counted over 50 needle spines in their bodies. Brave men. Stupid, but brave. The trade of a common man.

Then it hit him. When he was drafted and taken away, the fencing of his farm was left horribly unfinished. Old man Harrison from the neighbor farm had promised him that he'll keep the younger boys busy with work and would show them how to do things way the 'old breed' would do them. He had also promised that the daily benefit would go straight to his wife and kids... It would be a miracle though if he could give the right amount of money to her. Would they be able to hire help from the undrafted men of the town? Highly unlikely, the best ones who were not drafted were already being paid for helping at the wealthier lands. Their turn will come, one day they shall carry the low-budget armor of the militia. Some of the might make it to the marines, if their bodies can handle all the stims and steroids.

He fixed the position of his gauss rifle.

Why did he take 200 credits with him? He knew that he didn't need that much currency with him... Wife and the kids would have had more use for it. Why did he borrow half a pound of butter from the neighbours? Sure, wife baked excellent bread but he could had eaten it without the butter. Oh well, they can repay it when the cows give birth. He wished his boys at home would help the farm as best as they could. Mere kids though... Hard times will teach them, they will turn out to be great lads. Let's just hope that the dominion wont go and draft them. The fate of the Booth family made him feel uneasy. They were a great family, one could consider their families as a one big family. Poor Betty at home... It was a good thing that their daughter, last of the kin, was with her. Rumours had it that she had been taken to the ghost program, but that was all hear-say. The best gossip came from Bucktooth Jackson, he would have to ask him when they'll catch up with Samuel's platoon. Jackson was in the 'Food platoon', all cooks, chefs and other various personel who's sole mission was to keep the militias' tummies full. They weren't fighters though, which was why they would march miles behind them. The tail of the arrow. Sure, one knows how to fire a weapon but they lacked training. How does an old man lift up a rifle that weighs one fifth of his weight?

It wouldn't matter though. Most of them died an hour ago when they got lost half a click to the west from their route and marched straight into an old spider minefield left behind by the confederacy years ago. Good old Bucktooth Jackson was one of the unlucky ones. Command didn't let rest of the militia know though, for army marches on it's belly and cutting of it's supplies would drastically lower morale of the men.

He needed something that would cheer him up. He put his hand to his pocket and saw three stim paks on his hand. He threw them away. He didn't need them. If he would have bothered to check behind him, he would have seen three militia men fighting over the packs. That's when he smiled. He started thinking about his oldest son. A marine. A genuine, hard as nails, take-no-bullshit marine. So much better than the militia Old Samuel represented. A healthy man, alpha male of his small town and the most desired by women and army alike, his son had enlisted in hopes of becoming a wraith pilot but instead he was given a rifle and huge armor. He was a marine on a distant star system, which name he could not recall. He was proud. Old Samuel was sure that he would achieve great things, he had faith that his firstborn would become an officer and therefore making his way out of harm's way. Little did he know that his oldest son seized to exist few days ago when a lone guardian ambushed his patrol. Bits of melted armor and flesh was all that remained of his son. Rest of his family knew already, but they could not reach Samuel. Videomails were inspected carefully for anything that would mention things like 'Raynor's raiders', 'corruption' and other various things which would create contradictory thoughts against their beloved dominion.

Old Samuel kept marching while still believing he had a first born child. He picked up his pace again, the guys from the other platoon were gaining up on him. Could barely keep up with his own. He could feel the old back problem coming up again.

The finest kept pushing forward.


End file.
